


A New Calling

by GreyWardenAspasia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Found Family, imposter syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29981190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyWardenAspasia/pseuds/GreyWardenAspasia
Summary: When Cassandra and Leliana needed a leader for the Inquisition, they spent months looking for the famed Hero of Ferelden. They did not expect to find her in the damp Haven dungeon, dumped into their laps as the solve survivor of the Conclave. Equipped with a new glowing hand and reunited with a few familiar faces, Circe Surana struggles with keeping a large secret from both old friends and new: the Inquisitor has begun to hear the Calling.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Surana, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1: Prologue

Circe Surana was unsure if she was the luckiest person in the world or the  _ unluckiest.  _

She was unlucky - in a way - because the discovery of her magical abilities at a young age had pulled her away from her family and resulted in her being sent to live at the Ferelden Circle known as Kinloch Hold... yet she was lucky because the Circle she lived in had been relatively free of abuse and she had thrived in her study of magic.

Similarly, most would agree that it was unlucky that her best friend, Jowan, turned out to be a blood mage... but she  _ was _ lucky that when she assisted Jowan with an escape attempt, a Grey Warden was present to conscript her into the ancient order when things went sideways. The alternative would have been the mage prison, the Aeonar, so Circe jumped on the chance to join Duncan.

The cycle of bad luck and good luck continued. 

Bad luck killed all the Wardens at Ostagar, but good luck helped the two remaining Wardens piece the world back together and end the Blight. Bad luck sent an assassin to kill Circe. Good luck made Zevran join her and become one of her best friends. 

Good luck led to Circe restoring the Ferelden Grey Wardens and it gave her a new place to call home in the newly fortified Vigil’s Keep. It helped her gather enough allies and power to be able to leave the Wardens to their own devices so that she could go on a research trip outside of Ferelden to try to cure the darkspawn corruption. 

It was good luck that helped her discover the magic that would remove the lethal taint.

It was  _ certainly  _ bad luck that made Circe begin to hear the Calling before she perfected the cure.

The dreams, the voices, and the music began ten months before she finalized the process of removing the corruption. Those were the worst days - and the worst nights. It was relatively easy to ignore the whispering when she was focused on her research. The eerie, sweetly sick music was pushed back, away from her focus, out of the little rented room she worked in. When her mind grew tired or when the time grew late, the whispers came back stronger. 

For months she endured this torture, working through the night occasionally when the voices would not otherwise let her sleep. Circe had never been a very physically strong person as she only had to wield a staff, not a heavy sword and shield, but whatever muscle and fat she had began to waste away from lack of sleep and lack of food. The kind redheaded woman - Nance - who owned the room that Circe rented expressed concern and started dropping off extra helpings of dumplings.

They went untouched.

Her work consumed her.

One night, after nearly four years away from Ferelden, Circe finally stopped. She sat her quill down. Ink splattered fingers were folded shakily in her lap as she looked down at the parchment. Something grew warm in her chest as she looked at the title of the instructions:

_ Instructions for the Removal of the Darkspawn Corruption, by Warden-Commander Circe Surana, 12th Day of Firstfall, 9:40 Dragon _

It was complete.

She allowed herself one sob, hopeful that this would end the voices and the dreams and the whispers, and then stood from her little writing desk. She had no time to waste on relief or happiness. While the ink dried, she quickly packed up her belongings and glanced out of the small glass window in her room. It was night now; she would have to leave a note for Nance as Circe could not wait until morning to begin the return trip to Ferelden. 

It would now be a race against time. 

The cure could not be self-administered; the Warden who was having the corruption removed from their body needed to be rendered unconscious before the magic could be performed and so the Warden-Commander needed to return to Vigil’s Keep to find a Grey Warden mage.

After scrawling a hasty explanation to Nance, Circe pulled out her map of Thedas and plotted a path with her black-stained fingertip. The shortest route would take her through Orlais, cutting through the Frostbacks, and then on toward Amaranthine. Her green eyes lingered on a marker on the map that signified a settlement was nestled in the mountain peaks between Orlais and Ferelden. The name of the town was written next to the icon.

_ Haven. _

She hesitated.

It was impossible to have not heard the rumors of some kind of meeting between the Chantry and the mages that was scheduled to occur in just a few months, in 9:41 Dragon. The Divine was supposed to be present. Circe paused only for a moment, before rolling up both the map and her corruption cure instructions and tucking them both carefully into her pack.

If something happened to her along the way back to the Wardens, she needed to ensure that someone had a copy of the cure to pass along to Weisshaupt. This was a Grey Warden secret that could not just be sent with a messenger; someone needed to hand-deliver it. 

That someone had to be a person she trusted, either another Grey Warden… or someone who had been an ally during the Blight, someone now known as the Left Hand of the Divine, someone who would _ certainly _ be in Haven four months from now, right when Circe was scheduled to be passing through the area.

She pulled her pack onto her shoulders and left the note for Nance on her dresser. As quietly as possible, she slipped out of the home and then began the muddy walk down the hill, toward the crooked little stable. While readying her horse, Circe gave one look back toward the cozy stone house that she had called home for the past few years, and smiled slightly.

It seemed she would be leaving one redhead to seek out another. 


	2. Chapter 2

A throbbing in her temple and the whispers in her head led Circe back to consciousness and it took every ounce of effort she had to force her eyes open. The temptation to let herself slip back into the darkness was great, but she knew she must resist. She needed to survey where she was, as her last memory was trudging down a snow-covered mountainside toward the Temple of Sacred Ashes and now she was…  _ where was she _ ?

Her eyes finally focused. Circe was in a dimly-lit room, laying on a cold and damp floor made of large blocks of hard stone. She was facing a wall made of the material as the floor. There were no windows and the only light came from a torch that she could hear crackling somewhere behind her. Her side ached; whether the pain was from an injury or just from being on her side on such an unforgiving surface for a few hours, she wasn’t sure. 

Slowly she rolled over, away from the wall, and came face-to-face with iron bars.  _ A cell, then, but where? And why? _ Her hands were bound, too, in coordinating metal manacles. The noise of the chain jangling between her wrists as she sat up caught her attention and she gasped as she looked toward the noise.

“Maker’s breath,” she whispered. Her right hand was fine - dirty and cold, but looking otherwise just as she remembered. Her left hand was another story. As her gaze roamed over it, her palm flared, spitting green sparks that burned like fire. Circe sucked in a breath, trying not to cry out. She didn’t want to alert her captors to the fact that she was awake, wherever they may be.

“So, I’m in a cell. Probably still in the mountains. And there’s something - wrong with my hand,” Circe said, taking stock of the situation and trying to keep calm. She had picked up the habit of speaking to herself during her time researching the darkspawn corruption. 

She studied the green mark on her pale hand. Certainly, it was magic, but she was not familiar with it. It didn’t _ feel _ like anything she had cast or encountered before and when Circe tried to summon her own magic to neutralize its effect… nothing happened. The green mark remained and continued to spit light into the cell.

A door squeaked.

Circe wasted no time. She laid down and turned back onto her side, facing the damp stone wall and trying to keep her manacles from jangling as she did so.  _ Calm, calm,  _ she told herself. Her breath steadied just as another door was opened. Light flooded the room and she could make out a few sets of footsteps. 

The footsteps stopped. The new torches were brought close to Circe’s cell; she could see her own limp shadow cast upon the stone wall. 

“What of her identity?” The voice was quiet and low. The speaker, a woman, had a soft Orlesian accent.

“We do not know,” another voice said. This was also a woman’s, also with an accent. Nevarran, if Circe had to guess. “She is wearing mage robes, but… there is no insignia.”

That much was true. Circe hadn’t wanted to advertise the fact that she was a Grey Warden, so she had been wearing plain dark gray robes when travelling. 

“Is she from the Circle?” the Orlesian voice asked.

“She doesn’t match the description of any of the ambassadors that Fiona sent,” Nevarran replied. “Perhaps she is an apostate.”

Is that why she was imprisoned - because they thought she was an apostate? It was common that people feared magic and mages by extension, so it was possible. Circe’s brow furrowed unseen. They had also mentioned the possibility that she was some kind of ambassador for a woman named Fiona. The name alone was unfamiliar to Circe. She knew several Fionas and without a title or a surname mentioned, she couldn’t be sure if she knew who they were referencing. 

“We need facts, not speculation,” the Orlesian woman said. Her voice was careful.

“We will get answers when she wakes,” the Nevarran promised. 

There was a pause. “No,” the Orlesian woman corrected. The light of the torch moved closer to the cell, illuminating Circe’s black curls. “We will get them now. She is awake, pretending to be asleep.”

_ Great.  _

Circe concentrated, trying to summon magic. She was only rewarded with more green light radiating from her palm both painfully and uselessly in this case. 

“You!” the Nevarran woman spat into the cell. “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

The Grey Warden sat up and rolled over, head throbbing from the sudden movement. She squinted in the close torchlight as her eyes adjusted and her captors came into view. 

The woman who was closer, the Nevarran, had dark short hair and a threatening expression. Her armored chestpiece bore a symbol that Circe vaguely recognized but could not name. 

Circe’s gaze slid from the Nevarran to the Orlesian woman behind her.

_ No. _

Her heart leapt up into her chest.

_ No,  _ her gaze moved to  _ Leliana. _

There was no mistaking the delicate face, the pale skin, the red hair peeking from underneath her intimidating hood. Circe could have kicked herself.  _ Why didn’t I recognize her voice earlier? _

“Well,” Circe said slowly. “For starters, I don’t think Leliana would let you kill me.”

The redhead moved closer to the cell, her eyebrows furrowed as she studied the Grey Warden. Circe shook her hair away from her face - maybe it would help Leliana recognize her. The last time they had seen each other, they had both been sporting chin-length bobs. Circe’s black curls were now grown out and wild, cascading as a mane past her shoulders. 

Leliana’s expression changed. “Release her,” she said. A guard - who Circe had previously not noticed had also entered the room with the woman - moved forward, a ring of keys jingling in his hand. 

“Leliana-” the other woman protested, but she stepped out of the guard’s path. 

“I know this woman,” Leliana said levelly as the cell door was unlocked. The guard pulled the door open with a screechy whine. “She is the Hero of Ferelden.”

The Nevarran woman looked as if she had been struck. “You are - certain?” she questioned. The dark haired woman’s gaze returned to Circe, whose manacles were also being unlocked. They dropped to the ground with a heavy thunk. The mage rubbed her wrists as the guard returned to his former position. 

“Of course I am,” Leliana answered, a small smile curling up into the corners of her mouth. She swept a pale hand dramatically, gesturing from the Nevarran to Circe. “Cassandra Pentaghast, I’d like to introduce you to Circe Surana.”

Circe stood slowly. Her legs were shaky and she gripped onto the iron bars for support as she moved out of the cell. “Hello,” she said awkwardly, giving a small nod of recognition. “Thank you for not killing me.”

“Warden-Commander,” Cassandra said automatically in greeting. Her voice was steady, although her stern face still looked shocked. “I am glad Leliana was here to recognize you.”

“Me too.”

“Why were you at the Conclave?” Leliana asked. “We weren’t told you’d be in attendance.”

“Oh,” Circe said.  _ Right to business.  _ “I - didn’t plan on it. I was returning to Ferelden after some business out of the country and I… it seemed like it would be nice to surprise you.”

The lie came smoothly. She would mention the Grey Warden business once she and Leliana were alone; she knew nothing of this Cassandra Pentaghast and her trustworthiness. 

“Well, you certainly did manage to surprise me,” Leliana said, the corners of her mouth curling up again. 

“About that - why was I in chains? Because you thought I was an apostate?” Circe asked. Leliana and Cassandra exchanged a look. “... what’s happened?”

Cassandra cleared her throat. “The Conclave is destroyed. The Temple is gone. Levelled completely,” she said. “Everyone is dead... except for you.”

Circe’s legs felt shaky again. 

They had to be wrong. It didn't make sense.

She didn’t even  _ remember  _ the Conclave, she didn’t even remember making it down the mountain to the Temple. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to picture the Temple and the people who were gathered there, but there was nothing. Circe’s green eyes opened. Her voice was a whisper when she spoke. “What happened?” she asked desperately. She lifted her palm, which was sputtering green light. “And what is  _ this _ ?”

“If it is not magic of your making, then… we do not know,” Cassandra said.

“What do you remember?” Leliana pressed.

“I-” Circe dug her non-sparking fingers to her painfully throbbing temple. “I don’t know. I can’t - I remember seeing the temple and heading down the mountain slope toward the Conclave and then… running?”

“Running towards what?” Leliana asked. 

“Running  _ from  _ \- things,” Circe said. It was hard to focus on the memory. It felt fuzzy and faint, like it was something from a story she had heard long ago. The more she focused on it, the more it tried to slip away. “And… running toward a light and a - a woman?”

“A woman? You were alone at the temple. What woman?” Cassandra demanded, her arms crossed. 

“I don’t know. I can’t-” she winced as her palm burned intensely again, bathing them all in jade. The memory had faded. “What is this? Where did it come from? I don’t recognize this magic, Leliana. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The redhead gave a short nod, her mouth a tight line as she studied Circe’s concerned expression. “We need to get you to the Rift,” she said finally. She looked toward Cassandra. “Can you take her?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said instantly with a nod, uncrossing her arms and moving to the dungeon door. “You were found without a staff. Do you need one?”

“No,” Circe said, following Cassandra out of the dungeon. She glanced behind her at Leliana. “What is the Rift?”

“You’ll see,” Leliana assured her, voice flat. 

“I’ll explain what we know along the way. It would be easier to… show you,” Cassandra said grimly. Another door was opened and sunlight seared Circe’s eyes. The Grey Warden winced, then slowly opened her eyes.

She wished she hadn’t. 

The sky looked like no sky Circe had ever seen before. It was a swirling, chaotic mess, streaked gray and green and crackling with magic and lightning. Occasionally a green streak of crackling energy jetted across the clouds and demons tumbled out in the distance. 

“Maker’s breath,” Circe said, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes were wide. “What happened? What did this?”

“We do not know. We assumed you were responsible,” Cassandra said, then cleared her throat. “Before Leliana realized who you were, of course.”

“I’m grateful I’m no longer a suspect,” Circe said. She mentally steeled herself. With demons falling from the sky, it would not be an easy journey to the Rift that the two women had spoken of. “If we survive, I’d like to find answers.”

“That makes two of us,” Cassandra said flatly. “If we survive, I’ll help you find them.”


	3. Chapter 3

The trek with Cassandra felt like a nightmare come to life. Demons fell from the sky with streaks of green billowing from them like ribbons. Bridges crumbled, people screamed and died. It was difficult to run past those who lay dying on the ground, limbs crushed by collapsed structures or the contents of their bellies poking out of wounds inflicted by demons, but they had no choice.

“The only way to help them is to close the Breach,” Cassandra reminded her.

That wasn’t true. She could help them now, she could lift a glowing hand and cast healing magic or soothing magic or sleep magic, but the act of helping them would take too long. It would end up killing everyone if the Breach wasn’t closed.

Circe slowly nodded in agreement and followed Cassandra. A sick-feeling weight settled into her stomach as they made their way along the path. 

Occasionally the two were delayed by more demons, but they made quick work of them. The short-haired woman was more than proficient with her weapon and Circe had spent enough time with magic to feel completely at home with it. Cassandra’s sword was an extension of her arm; Circe’s magic was the same to her. 

Eventually, the pair dropped down from a ruined ledge of - something; whether the ruin had been a temple or a fence, she wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t focused on identifying the crumbling stone. Circe’s eyes were transfixed by  _ it. _

It was beautiful, but it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up and gooseflesh bloom along her arm. There was a multi-faceted emerald suspended in the sky, geometric and terrifying, shifting and changing and spurting out hot green light that sizzled as it contacted the ground. Demons stepped from it, screaming, charging.

“We must help them!”

Circe tore her eyes from the Rift. She hadn’t even noticed the two figures who were battling the enemies that dropped from the rip in the air. There was an elf wearing some kind of robes, twirling a staff and releasing well-cast magic. A dwarf joined him, spinning and flipping and firing a crossbow with deadly accuracy. 

The four of them defeated the demons quickly. Circe panted slightly as she flexed her hand, wincing. She was tired. Her legs felt shaky, but there was no time to stop and rest. The elf mage with the shaved head approached her and gestured to the ever-shifting emerald tear. 

“Quickly!” he said, grabbing her wrist. “Before more come through-”

He thrust her palm toward the Rift and there was an arc of light suddenly that connected Circe’s hand to the Rift. She could feel her face pull into a grimace with effort. The sensation wasn’t painful, necessarily, but it was unpleasant and left her feeling even more drained than she had a moment before. The movement was worth it, though; the Rift shrunk and folded into itself until it was gone in a burst of jade sparks. 

“How did you know that would happen?” she asked, turning to the mage. Her hand tingled. It felt as if she had slept in an odd position and woken up to pins and needles instead of sensation. 

“It was only a theory,” he said. He seemed to be studying her. His clear, gray-brown eyes unnerved her for a reason she could not explain. She wondered if he could feel that she was dying, if he could somehow sense the darkspawn corruption within her, ebbing away at her life. She banished the thought from her head. “I assumed that whatever magic opened the tear in the sky also placed that mark on your hand.”

“I like that theory, because it means if the Mark could close this small one, it could close  _ that  _ as well,” Circe said, nodding toward the Breach. “They look like the same sort of tear, just - larger.”

“It is possible, yes,” the elf said quietly. 

The dwarf joined them, reloading his crossbow and grinning. “Good. Always glad to hear that it might not be the end of the world yet,” he said. 

“We share that sentiment,” Circe breathed, automatically smiling in response. “Thank you for your help. I’m-”

Cassandra approached, slightly out of breath from the battle. “We are going to the forward camp,” she said. 

The dwarf raised his eyebrows, then nodded. “Then we’ll make sure you get there, Seeker,” he said. Cassandra looked like she was about to protest, so the dwarf quickly spoke again before she could interrupt. “The valley is ass deep in demons. It’s overrun. Trust me, you’ll want our help.”

“Very well,” Cassandra said, pressing her lips together and turning. Circe raised an eyebrow and followed her wordlessly. Both the mage and the dwarf followed suit. 

“My name is Solas,” the elf said. His voice was calm despite the amount of demons shooting from the sky. “I’m pleased to see you still live.”

The dwarf chuckled. “He means, ‘I’m the one who stopped that thing from killing you.’”

Circe’s dark eyebrows raised. The perpetual magic student within her wanted to ask a thousand questions. How had he managed to suppress the magic? What was the source? What did it  _ feel  _ like when he tapped into the magic? Had it been simple trial and error or had he had another theory for how to slow down the Mark’s lethal corruption that just happened to be correct?

She asked none of those questions.

“Then you’re also someone I should thank,” Circe said finally. “I appreciate it, Solas. Truly. It’s good to meet you both. My name is Circe.”

“Varric Tethras,” the dwarf said, then held up his crossbow. “This is Bianca.”

“Interesting. I’m sure there’s a story behind that name,” she said. 

“Oh, you like stories?” he asked with a chuckle. Ahead, Circe heard Cassandra make a  _ tch  _ sound in disagreement. “We’ll get along famously.”

They headed into the valley, crossing a frozen stream. Their footsteps crunched and the top layer of ice creaked and cracked beneath them but it did not break. As they were climbing the snowy riverbank on the opposite side, Varric offered her a hand to help her climb. Her thin boots had been slipping on the slick snow. 

“Thanks,” she said, grunting as he helped her up. 

“Not a problem,” he said. “Your accent - you’re Ferelden?”

“I am,” she confirmed. “I was born in Redcliffe and was raised in the Circle Tower.”

Of course she was born in the Redcliffe  _ alienage _ , but she didn’t feel the need to add that. Her pointed ears would be evidence enough. She didn’t remember the alienage much, anyway; at this point her birthplace was just a name and not an actual memory to her. 

“Really? You might know the commander, then,” Varric remarked. “Small world.”

Circe blinked. “Who is your commander?”

She did not find out. As they rounded a set of staircases carved into the mountainside, demons congregated around them. They were soon too busy in battle to keep up their casual conversation and after the fight, Circe sealed another Rift. This time the closing of it was painful. She slowly inhaled and exhaled, her breath hissing out between her lips as she squeezed her hand. 

The movement drew Solas’ attention. He looked at the Mark and seemed to be reminded of something. “Cassandra, you should know - the magic here is unlike any I've ever seen. Your prisoner is a mage, but I have difficulty believing any mage could be responsible for such power."

“I appreciate that, Solas, but she has already been cleared of wrongdoing,” Cassandra said firmly. She was wiping sweat from her brow. “She is no longer our prisoner, but an ally.”

“Huh. That’s… unexpected,” Varric said. He held up a hand defensively as Circe looked at him. “Not that I think you did it! I’m just surprised that you managed to convince the Nightingale so quickly. And the Seeker, too! She’s a hard sell.”

Cassandra snorted. “We could hardly doubt the morals of the Hero of Ferelden, Varric.”

“The - Maker’s breath!” Varric said, blinking as if he was seeing Circe for the first time. His eyes were wide. ”You mean you’re Circe  _ Surana! _ ”

“I am.”

He studied her, still looking incredulous. “I thought you disappeared.”

“I did for a while,” she said. “I’m…back now.”

“Luckily for us!” Varric said with a laugh. “Maybe not for you, but…”

She laughed dryly with him. 

It always came back to luck.

* * *

Her fortune held out. 

They reached the forward camp to meet up with Leliana and a sour-faced man of the Chantry known as Chancellor Roderick. He called for her beheading, which seemed to amuse Leliana and irritate Cassandra. 

The former Seeker had pointed out that Roderick had no authority to issue any orders, which was true. The Divine was presumed dead at this point and there was no one who was officially in charge, which added further complication to their  _ already  _ very complicated situation. 

Cassandra and Leliana offered Circe a choice. They asked for her to choose what they should do to reach the ruined temple: she could either stand with the soldiers or take the mountain path. 

Circe chose the mountain path. She didn’t know if she would have the energy to fight demons head on with the soldiers and then close the Breach at the temple. Her legs already felt like jelly when she stood still; she didn’t need to test her luck and her endurance after such an unusual day full of strange magic. 

“You still with us?” Varric asked her as they neared the ruined Temple. His voice sounded concerned.

“I am. I’m just tired,” she said.  _ Just tired.  _ How often had she said that over the past few months? Mostly to Nance, who had always been fretting, but now to a complete stranger who could see through her thinly veiled facade. Circe pushed her black curls back behind her ear and tried to act nonchalant. “Are _ you _ alright?”

“Me? Oh, sure, I’m great,” Varric said with a dark chuckle. “A hole in the sky, demons, meeting the Hero of Ferelden? Just another Tuesd-  _ Maker’s breath _ .”

They had rounded a corner and the Temple of Sacred Ashes had come into view. Or, rather, the decimated smoldering spot where the temple had once stood had come into view. All that remained now was a ghastly ruin of bodies, ash, and stone. 

“I survived _ that _ ?” she asked. 

“You did,” Cassandra confirmed grimly.

Circe fell silent. 

She was not a religious person, but there was something in the air that felt - holy, perhaps, or maybe it was just the glimmering remnants of powerful magic. Its presence sobered her; she felt as if she was walking on hallowed ground. 

That feeling multiplied when she saw the Breach, shifting and glittering just as the small rifts had done. Echoes of the Divine’s last words spouted from the tear, echoing off of the charred remains of the temple. It provided little clue for what had happened, who had instigated the explosion, and how Circe had survived. 

It didn’t matter, not now, she supposed. 

The time for answers would come later, after they sealed the Breach. The group fought through the ruins, killing demons - including an ogre - and at last the tear was unobstructed. 

Circe extended her hand, wincing, sweat dampening her hair. She could see Cassandra and Varric in her peripheral vision; they were shouting something but she couldn’t hear it. There was a loud buzzing in her ears, hot and desperate, and her palm crackled as an arc connected with the large rift. 

At last her legs gave out and she fell onto her knees, struggling to keep her palm held high. Circe did not want to sever the connection. 

_ Keep going _ , she told herself. 

_ Keep going! _

The edge of her vision ebbed black. She could no longer see Cassandra or Varric; all she could see was the rift, the light searing into her eyes. 

_ I’m dying,  _ she realized.

_ I’m dying.  _

A strange peace washed over her. The Mark or the darkspawn corruption - maybe both - was draining her energy. She would not pass on the procedure to cure the corruption. She would not find answers for who put the Mark on her hand or why. She would not see daylight ever again.

She would do this one final act.

Then she would die.

The arc snapped like a thread, severing the connection between her hand and the rift. The tear closed in on itself and her vision went all black. 

She would die. 


	4. Chapter 4

It turned out that Circe had _not_ died, but instead she _had_ fallen unconscious after she sealed the sky. Whether this fainting was a side effect from the Mark, the effort of closing the Rift, or the darkspawn corruption sapping away her energy, she wasn’t sure. She chalked it up as a combination of everything finally taking its toll. 

When she woke in Haven, dressed in a new clean set of robes, and she was informed to report to the Chantry immediately. 

Everything that happened next was a blur. 

A conversation between Leliana, Cassandra, and Chancellor Roderick ended with Cassandra producing an intimidating-looking tome from somewhere and announcing that the Inquisition was reborn. 

“We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order,” Cassandra promised, her voice full of determined steel. 

After Chancellor Roderick had left the room in a huff, Leliana turned to Circe with a small sly smile on her face. “What do you think?” the redhead asked. “Will you join us?”

“You have no allies, no assets, and plenty of enemies,” Circe said slowly. She looked down at the Mark still on her hand and clenched her fist. “Which, as you know, is _just_ how I like to start my world-saving endeavors.”

“Of course. You were never afraid of a challenge,” Leliana said with a small chuckle. Cassandra still seemed to be waiting.

“I’ll do what I can to help,” Circe assured the former Seeker. “I’ve got the Mark - you’ve got me.”

There was no other choice, really. She could never turn away from anyone who was asking for her help, especially not an old friend like Leliana. Her trip to Weisshaupt would have to wait. Perhaps she could instead send a letter to Vigil’s Keep, to ask for a Grey Warden mage to come to Haven. The mage would perform the procedure to neutralize the corruption within Circe and then - ideally - the voices inside of her mind would quiet permanently. 

“Thank you,” Cassandra said with a grateful nod, pulling Circe from thoughts of the Grey Wardens. She looked at Leliana. “We can reconvene here this afternoon to make proper introductions to the rest of the council.”

* * *

Circe tried to make herself busy during the short recess until the afternoon meeting. 

She found parchment and ink and focused on carefully writing three copies of the darkspawn cure. Thank goodness she had a decent memory. Her little campsite and her horse had not yet been found in the mountains and she had fallen from the Fade with empty pockets, her original instructions for the cure lost or destroyed. 

The new plan was to hand a copy off to Leliana after the meeting, to keep one copy on hand, and to have a trusted agent of the Nightingale keep the last copy away from Haven in case anything were to happen to the mountain village. Circe would not take any chances with having the cure lost forever; it was better to be overly cautious than to have the cure die with her.

When she had the copies sealed with wax and safely stored in a pouch concealed on the inside of her robes, Circe headed toward the tavern. It was there that she met the bartender, Flissa, who was very nice and provided her with the best bowl of soup she had enjoyed in some time. Circe drained the last bits of carroty broth just as a familiar figure entered the building.

“There you are,” Cassandra said, nodding in greeting to Flissa and leaning against the counter. “Everyone is waiting in the war room. Are you ready?”

“Yes," Circe said, hopping off of the barstool. "Thank you for lunch, it was fantastic.” The bartender smiled and waved slightly as they left. 

Together Circe and Cassandra headed toward the Chantry. Snow had begun to fall; it collected quite prettily in Cassandra’s dark hair. Circe self-consciously touched her own hair, which had been braided hastily that morning. A few curly strands had escaped around her hairline and the nape of her neck and were springy and frizzy. Perhaps she should have re-braided her hair before going to this meeting.

“Does it trouble you?” Cassandra asked suddenly. Circe glanced at the former Seeker, whose gaze was fixed upon the Mark.

“The pain?” she asked. “Or the heavy, terrifying implications of such unknown magic?”

The ends of Cassandra’s mouth curved upward slightly. “Both.”

“Yes. Both do,” Circe admitted. “Although one is more easily ignored than the other.” 

It was easy to push past the pain when she had been ignoring voices and music in her head for almost a year. Perhaps this answer troubled the former Seeker; Cassandra was still studying Circe out of the corner of her eye.

“What?” she asked. 

“You are not like I imagined,” Cassandra said carefully.

Circe blinked. “You... imagined me?”

“I - Leliana tells stories,” Cassandra said, looking embarrassed. They had reached the Chantry. Cassandra opened the door and held it for Circe, searching for words. “But I did not expect you to be so…”

“Uhh… elven?” she guessed. That was what people usually said. 

“No, I did not think you’d be so…casual. It is easy to forget that you are the one who slew the archdemon, the one who stopped the Blight, the one who saved the world.”

Circe could feel her cheeks heat in embarrassment. “Oh. Right. I tend to not really… open with that when I meet new people.”

“You are very humble,” Cassandra decided as they began the long walk down the Chantry to the war room. 

“I wouldn’t say that, I’m just - people make me out to be something that I don’t really…” she trailed off. “People forget that I didn’t do it alone. And I just did what anybody would have done in that situation.”

“I’m not so sure,” Cassandra said. She studied Circe some more, then pursed her lips in satisfaction. “Cullen was right - you are approachable and kind. This will work in our favor when it is time to forge alliances.”

“Already thinking of strategies?” Circe asked with a small laugh. They had almost reached the war room when she finally registered Cassandra’s sentence. “I - wait- did you say _Cullen_?”

“Yes, our commander.”

She stopped in her tracks. It was not a common name. “Cullen _Rutherford_?” she repeated.

Cassandra hesitated at the war room door, turning to look at Circe. “Yes. I believe you both spent time at Kinloch Hold,” she verified impatiently. Cocked her head toward the door. “We have business.”

“I’m coming. I just didn’t expect to hear that name ever again.”

She had not seen Cullen since… Maker, not since the Harrowing Chamber at Kinloch Hold. Of course she had heard various rumors about him after the Blight ended, some of which were very nasty. During her time at Vigil’s Keep she had heard a whisper that he had some kind of mental breakdown that resulted in the death of three mages. Thankfully, that had proven to be untrue. 

“We recruited him after Kirkwall,” Cassandra said. “He was piecing the city back together when we found him.”

Circe knew vague details of what had transpired. There was a clash between Templars and mages, her - friend - Anders destroyed the Chantry and a good portion of the city as well. His actions plunged the city into chaos. She wondered what Cullen’s role in the story was.

“He spoke highly of you, as did Leliana,” Cass continued. Her hand was on the door to the war room, though she did not open it. “This is why we were trying to find you to lead the Inquisition.”

“Well… I’m a little late, but I’m here,” she said, which made Cassandra chuckle. The Seeker opened the door and gestured for Circe to enter.

A sprawling, detailed map of Thedas had been spread over the long wooden table in the war room. Leliana stood over the map, placing markers at various points. She looked up as they entered and nodded, red hair catching in the candle light. 

“Welcome back,” the Nightingale said as Circe and Cassandra joined her at the table. 

Circe’s gaze moved to rest on the woman next to Leliana. She had dark skin and an extravagant gold outfit. In her hands rested a clipboard and occasionally she lifted a quill to write some notes.

 _She must be the ambassador,_ Circe assumed. _So then where is-_

There.

He was standing a few feet from the table, lifting the page of what she assumed was some kind of report. He turned the page and his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, a little crease appearing between them. Cullen looked both exactly the same as she remembered and also completely different. He had the same sweet face, but he held himself taller, more confident. He looked imposing with a shiny sword on his hip and a tall silhouette. 

“You know Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces,” Cassandra said, gesturing to Cullen. At mention of his name he looked up, abandoning the report on the table. 

“I do,” she said with a tentative smile. “It’s good to see you again. Maybe the conditions could be better, since there are literally demons falling from the sky, but - you look well.”

He stepped closer to the table and gave a small nod of recognition, lifting a gloved palm to rest on the pommel of his sword. It looked like a habit. “As do you.”

“This,” Cassandra continued. “Is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

The woman in gold smiled and nodded, her eyes crinkling warmly. “I’ve heard much. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” Josephine said. She had an Antivan accent, which reminded Circe of Zevran. She instantly liked the woman. 

“And of course, Sister Leliana,” Cassandra said. “Everyone - this is Warden-Commander Circe Surana, Hero of Ferelden.”

There it was again. _Hero of Ferelden._ Circe disliked the title for multiple reasons: it discounted the efforts of her companions, it reduced her from an actual person into some mythical figure, and it was very hard to live up to it. Every decision she made was chosen after a single subconscious thought: _what would the Hero of Ferelden do?_

“I prefer ‘Circe.’ It’s much shorter and easier to say,” she said. Josephine chuckled and made a note on her clipboard before looking back up to Circe. In fact, _everyone_ seemed to now be looking at her.

_Down to business it is, then._

She cleared her throat. “Alright. Ah, as everyone is aware… we need help. More specifically, we need _power_ to funnel through the Mark to close the Breach for good.”

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help,” Leliana continued smoothly. 

Cullen shook his head. “I still disagree,” he said firmly. “The Templars could serve just as well.”

Cassandra made a _tch_ sound and placed a hand on the wooden table. “We need _power_ , Commander. Enough magic poured into that Mark -”

“Might destroy us all,” he insisted. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so-”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana pointed out. 

Circe was inclined to agree with the redhead. Templars could weaken magic, yes, but they had no idea if that ability would even be effective against the Breach. It had already been proven that magic could close it; they only needed more mages to boost Circe’s abilities. It seemed irresponsible to make a decision on what _could_ happen, when they knew for certain what _would_ work. 

She did not get an opportunity to interject with her opinion, however. Cullen placed a hand on the table, too, mirroring Cassandra’s pose. “ _I was a Templar_. I know what they’re capable of,” he said.

Josephine cleared her throat loudly. They all stopped to look at the ambassador. “ _Unfortunately_ , neither group will even speak to us yet,” she said. Her eyes rested on Circe. “The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition - and you, specifically.”

“I imagine they’ve taken offense to my newest title - Herald of Andraste,” Circe said. She had heard it all over Haven already, ridiculous as it was. Some people apparently thought that the figure behind her in the Fade was Andraste herself. Circe doubted it. If Andraste was even real - which, she wasn't certain she was - why would she choose to help a faithless elven mage?

“You imagine correctly. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy and we heretics for harboring you,” Josephine confirmed. 

“Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt,” Cassandra said. 

“I really don’t like that man,” Circe said with an irritated sigh. “We need to find an in with the Chantry, then - a way to gain their favor, so they might stop hindering any chance we have of gaining aid.”

“I might have just the thing,” Leliana said with a smile. She traced a finger along the map, to Redcliffe. “A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far and she knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

Circe frowned. “Why would she be willing to go against the Chantry? Out of kindness?” she asked hopefully. “Or do you think she wants something in return?”

“I’ve heard she is a reasonable sort. I would assume she does not agree with her Sisters, although it is possible there is something she needs from us. It would be best to meet with her to find out,” Leliana said with a nod.

“And she’s in Redcliffe?”

“Near enough to it. She is tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands,” said Leliana. 

Redcliffe. Circe hadn’t seen it since it was overrun with the undead during the Blight. It would be nice to see how the city had recovered. “Very well. I’ll head there immediately and see if I can make some allies along the way,” Circe said with a determined nod. 

“It should be no problem for you,” Leliana said with a smile. “Though of course you will need to take a small team with you. No one should be travelling alone - least of all the wielder of the only magic Mark we have.”

“Good. We have a plan,” Cassandra said, lifting her hand from the table. “It is something, at least.”

“It is. And please, Herald, a word before you leave,” Josephine said. She stepped around the table and stood near Circe, angling her clipboard so that they both could see the contents of it. “I am wanting to make sure I have all of your titles listed properly. For formal documentation and letters, of course-”

Her stomach twisted. Titles, titles. How many did she have now? And Circe felt as if she couldn’t live up to any of them. She found Josephine’s voice was fading as the ambassador traced a finger down a bit of parchment with several variations written upon it. _Warden-Commander Circe Surana, Hero of Ferelden…_ her vision pulled from the page and landed on Cullen. 

He was speaking with Cassandra. The former Seeker’s back was to Circe so she couldn’t see Cassandra’s expression, but she could see Cullen’s. His brows were creased again and he spoke insistently, occasionally using a hand to gesture to the map of Thedas. In the candlelight, a little scar on his lip glinted silver. Circe hadn’t noticed it before. She wondered if he had gotten it in Kirkwall. 

Suddenly, as if summoned by her thoughts, his warm eyes lifted to meet hers. Circe immediately put her attention back on Josephine, her cheeks warm. 

“- so, let me know if this order sounds preferable: Warden-Commander Circe Surana, Commander of the Grey, Savior of Amaranthine, Ruler of Vigil’s Keep, Founder of the Silver Order, and Hero of Ferelden,” Josephine said. 

“That is a mouthful,” Circe replied awkwardly. “And... I certainly don’t know how much of that applies currently.”

“Hmm. I know there _are_ rumors that you’ve been replaced as Warden-Commander and also as the ruler of Vigil’s Keep, but nothing is official… and I certainly do not expect the Wardens to issue a formal statement at this time. No one has been able to establish contact with them.”

Circe balked. Replaced? That was certainly odd, as she had received no word of such a thing. She made a mental note to mention that in her letter to Vigil’s Keep. Perhaps there was some misunderstand - maybe they, like the rest of the world, thought she had died or disappeared. “Whatever you think about the titles, I’ll agree with. You’re the expert, from what I hear,” she said. 

“Yes, well, I will draft some more options and see which one may be most appropriate.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” Circe said, then chewed on her lip. “I do want to circle back to something you said - the Grey Wardens? They haven’t replied to your messages?”

Josephine shook her head. The movement made her loose strands of black hair bounce. “From what I have heard, they haven’t responded to _anyone’s_ messages.”

Leliana approached, arms crossed over her chest. “No one has seen any of the Grey Wardens in quite some time. Vigil’s Keep is abandoned.”

“There have been no sightings of the Orlesian Wardens, either,” Cassandra said. She and Cullen had apparently finished their conversation; the pair had moved closer to the rest of the group.

“I - you’ve written to Weisshaupt, as well?”

“We have,” Cullen confirmed. “We have not received a response.”

She tried not to panic, racking her brain for any logical explanation. “That’s - concerning,” she said finally. “They would at least provide a courtesy reply. So either they’re not there…” 

“Or someone is intercepting our messages,” Leliana finished.

“Great. Another thing to add to the very long list,” Circe said. She tried to appear calm, but on the inside her stomach was turning.

She _needed_ to find the Wardens. Their sudden disappearance in the middle of the organization being rebuilt was uncharacteristic and alarming. What would draw all of the Wardens away from their post? Something sinister or important, no doubt. Circe thought of her friends - Sigrun, Alistair, Nathaniel - and hoped they were okay. 

“We need to find the Wardens as quickly as possible,” Circe said to Leliana. The Nightingale nodded after hesitating slightly; there was an unspoken question in her eyes. “They could be the allies we need.”

That explanation wasn’t untrue - they _could_ be allies to the Inquisition - but it wasn’t the entire truth, either. Circe wanted to find a Grey Warden mage before the darkspawn corruption progressed too far. Theoretically any mage could perform the procedure if needed, but Grey Warden secrets weren’t something to be thrown around without caution. Circe made a promise to herself that if she couldn’t find a Warden, she would ask Solas to perform the procedure before the corruption impeded her ability to assist the Inquisition. 

She couldn’t save the world - again - if she was dead.

**Author's Note:**

> REUNION! It's only gonna get better from here.. and worse. LOVE IT. :') I love to suffer and I hope you guys do too lmao


End file.
